Personally, Charlotte would not have given it houseroom, but tastes varied.
“Do you like it?” Eloise looked up, a flicker of amusement in her face. “I always think it makes the house look rather dark, and it isn’t really like that at all. But Tormod is fond of it, so I let it hang there.”
“That is your country house?” Charlotte asked the obvious question because there was nothing else she could think of to say, and she knew that the reply would provide material for several minutes’ polite discussion. They were still on the subject of town and country differences when the door opened and a young man came in who Charlotte knew immediately must be Eloise’s brother. He had the same mass of dark hair and the same wide eyes and pale skin. The resemblance in features was not so great, however; he had a higher brow, with the hair sweeping away from it in a broad wave, and his nose was rather aquiline. His mouth was wide, quick to laugh, and, Charlotte judged, quick to sulk. Now he came forward with easy, quite natural grace.
“Mrs. Ellison, what a pleasure to see you.” He slipped his arm around Eloise. “I don’t believe I have met your companion?”
“My daughter Mrs. Pitt.” Caroline smiled back. “Mr. Tormod Lagarde.”
He bowed very slightly.
“Welcome to Rutland Place, Mrs. Pitt. I hope we shall see you often.”
“That is most kind of you,” Charlotte replied.
Tormod sat next to Eloise on a broad sofa.
“I expect I shall call upon my mother more often as the spring approaches,” Charlotte added.
“I’m afraid the winter is very grim,” he answered. “One feels far more like remaining close to the fire than venturing out to go visiting. In fact, we quite often retreat altogether to our house in the country and simply close the doors all January and February.”
Eloise’s face warmed as if at some sweet and lingering memory. She said nothing, but Charlotte imagined she could see reflected in her eyes the light of Christmases with trees and lanterns, pinecone fires and hot toast, and long, happy companionship too easy to need the communication of words.
Tormod fished in his pocket and brought out a small package.
“Here.” He held it out to Eloise. “To replace the one you lost.”
She took it, looking up at him, then down at the little parcel in her hands.
“Open it!” he commanded. “It’s not so very special.”
Slowly she obeyed, anticipation and pleasure in her face.
Inside the parcel was a small, silver-handled buttonhook.
“Thank you, dear,” she said gently. “That really was most thoughtful of you. Especially since it might so easily have been my own fault. I shall feel dreadfully guilty now if the other one turns up and I had merely been careless all the time.” She looked over at Charlotte, apology and a touch of embarrassment in her face. “I lost my old one that I had for years. I think it went from my reticule, but I suppose I might have put it somewhere else and forgotten.”
Charlotte’s desire to know was stronger than her good judgment to keep silent on the subject. “You mean you think it could have been stolen?” she asked, feigning surprise.
Tormod dismissed it. “These things happen sometimes. It’s an unpleasant thought, but one must face reality—servants do steal from time to time. But since it appears to have happened in someone else’s house, it is far better to say nothing. It would be in very poor taste to embarrass a friend by letting it be known. Besides, as Eloise says, it may turn up—although I doubt it now.”
Caroline cleared her throat nervously. “But should theft be condoned?” she said a little hesitantly. “I mean—is that right?”
Tormod was still casual, his voice light. He smiled at her with a little twist of regret.
“I suppose not, if one knew for sure who it was and had proof that it had occurred,” he said. “But we haven’t. All we would do is rouse suspicion, and perhaps quite unjustly. Better to let the matter lie. Once one begins an inquiry into evil, one can start a train of events that is very difficult to stop. A silver-plated buttonhook is hardly worth all the anger and fear, and the doubts, that inquiry would raise.”
“I think you are quite right,” Charlotte said quickly. “After all, a case of something missing—one has no idea where—is very different from actually knowing beyond question that a particular person has stolen it.”
“How wise of you.” Tormod flashed her a rapid smile. “Justice is not always best served by shouting ‘thief.’ ”
Before Caroline could defend her view, the maid announced another caller.
“Mrs. Denbigh, ma’am,” she said to Eloise. “Shall I say that you will receive her?”
Eloise’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. In another light, farther from the window, the change in her expression might not have been visible at all.
“Yes, of course, Beryl, please do.”
Amaryllis Denbigh was the sort of woman Charlotte felt quite uncomfortable with. She came into the room with assurance, carrying with her an air of always having been successful, always valued. She was not beautiful, but there was an appeal in her face of wide eyes and slightly too round, curved lips, the innocence of an adolescent who does not yet understand her own potential for excitement and hunger. She had an abundance of fair, wavy hair that was dressed just casually enough not to look unnatural. It required a very skilled maid to achieve such an effect. Her dress was undeniably expensive—not in the least ostentatious, but Charlotte knew how much it cost to have a dressmaker cut it so cleverly that the bust looked just that much fuller, the waist those few inches smaller.
Introductions were formal and very complete. Amaryllis weighed Charlotte to an exactness, and dismissed her. She turned to Tormod.
“Shall you be coming to Mrs. Wallace’s soirée on Thursday? I do so hope so. I have heard the pianist she has invited is quite excellent. I’m sure you would enjoy it. And Eloise too, of course,” she added as an afterthought, a politeness without conviction.
Charlotte noted the tone in her voice and drew conclusions of her own.
“I think we will,” Tormod replied. He turned to Eloise. “You have nothing else prepared, have you, dear?”
“No, not at all. If this pianist is good, it will be a great pleasure. I only hope they do not all make such a noise we cannot hear him.”
“My dear, you cannot expect conversation to cease just to listen to a pianist—not at a soirée,” Amaryllis said gently. “After all, it is primarily a social event, and the music is merely a diversion, a pleasantness. And of course it gives people something to talk about without having to think too hard for a suitable subject. Some people are so awkward, you know.” She smiled at Charlotte. “Do you not think so, Mrs. Pitt?”
“Indeed, I am sure of it,” Charlotte agreed frankly. “Some cannot think of anything suitable to say at all, while others speak far too much and at all the wrong times. I greatly like a person who knows how to be silent comfortably, especially when there is good music playing.”
Amaryllis’ face tightened. She ignored the implication.
“Do you play, Mrs. Pitt?” she asked.
“No,” Charlotte answered blandly. “I regret I do not. Do you?”
Amaryllis regarded her chillingly.
“I paint,” she replied. “I prefer it. So much less intrusive, I think. One can look or not, as one chooses. Oh”—she widened her eyes and bit her lip—“I’m so sorry, Eloise. I had forgotten that you play. I did not mean you, of course! You have never played at anyone’s soirée!”
“No, I think I should be very nervous,” Eloise said. “Although it would be an honor to be asked. But I rather think I should be irritated if everyone talked so much that no one else could listen.” She spoke with some feeling. “Music should be respected, not treated like street sounds, or wallpaper, no more than a sort of background. Then one becomes bored with it, without ever having appreciated its beauty.”